A Journalist's Work Is Never Done
by EldritchEngine
Summary: It's the old cliche. 5th year, Harry Potter needs protection, the school is being taken over by a corrupt pink demon. This time, instead of just going along with it, Dumbledore decides to be a Whistleblower. Enter Miles Upshur and his godly tagalong.
1. Prologue

**So, while looking through fanfiction archives of old fandoms, I realized that Outlast has a criminally low number of crossovers, and an even more criminally low number of crossovers that center around our favorite dead reporter.**

 **So, I decided to change that.**

It had been just a few months.

A few months of wandering his self-imposed prison, of learning the ins and outs of all the levels of Hell, of cutting down and tearing apart each and every Murkoff team that came, no matter the reason.

At the very least, he had one victory, one major victory, over Murkoff, over the company that saw demons that should never have been meddled with and people who just wanted to get better and only saw money.

That one day, that one morning, the sunrise on his rebirth, when he walked outside of Hell and saw the man, the one dressed as much in his own blood as his prison jumpsuit, the one who he vaguely recognized as the Whistleblower, Waylon Park. That day, that morning, he had shoved the one who brought him to Hell out of it, Dante trapped and Virgil free.

A few days later, he had been typing on one of the still-functional computers down in the lowest level, down in the labs. Eight fingers had been skittering over the keys in front of the blood-filled orb that was Billy Hope's final resting place, and when he had seen the videos upon videos pop up, the forums immediately burst into frantic activity, well.

For the first time since the death and rebirth of Miles Upshur, bloodied, thin lips curved upwards.

But it had been two months since then, and only now, only after the press had ripped into the poor man, after each and every second of those videos had been aired over and over and over, after Murkoff had been ripped into and eviscerated (just like the people it had shoved into the Engine, just like the victims of its greedy, capitalist agenda that was so far down the trash can it no longer existed). Only now was Mount Massive being taken back, the people freed, the blood and guts and gore cleaned and (fruitlessly) counted.

Miles Upshur hovered just off the ground, just within the treeline, the black mist of the Walrider swirling up and around him, and watched the police cars roll in, watched the men (or women, he couldn't tell under the hazmat suits they wore) go in and come out with more blood, more gore, more guts held in their arms, on stretchers. Every now and then, the occasional still-alive Variant was rolled out, a few of the mangled faces familiar (there were those twins again), many of them not.

For the first time since Miles Upshur had died, light shone into Hell.

And he didn't know what to do.

A laptop tucked under one arm, a journal tucked under his jacket, a camcorder tucked into a pocket. That was all he had, now, aside from the bloody clothes on his back and the constant, neverending buzzing in his head.

And so, he watched, unnoticed, as the men/women/were they even human? cleaned out Mount Massive

He didn't even flinch when a crack sounded from behind him, and an old, old, old man stepped up besides the dead Apostle.

He had found forums, found webpages, discovered a whole world separate from his, a world of magic and dictatorship and corruption and the Dark Ages. He knew who this man was, and he had a suspicion of why he was here.

After a minute of silence (except it wasn't, there was that buzz, the Swarm making noise except it wasn't really there, it was only in his head, but what was the difference?), the old man spoke up.

"I'm a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and I have a tip for you."

The conversation faded into the night.

It had been just a few months.

Time for another story.

After all, a journalist's work was never done.

Not even after death.


	2. Enter Sandman

Harry's life _sucked_.

First, he'd had to go the whole summer - _all_ _of it_ \- without any of his many, many, _many_ letters being answered, whether it be the ones to his so-called _friends_ or to Dumbledore. They weren't allowed to, his ass - he had done _everything_ for them, and they left him alone! With the Dursleys! _For months!_

Needless to say, he had yelled at them rather loudly, only stopping after the twins exercised their newfound ability to Apparate.

"Just a little louder Harry, I don't think they heard you in China!"

Brats.

But, eventually, the scarred (and rather justifiably angry) teenager calmed down, sitting on the edge of one of the beds in the room with Hermione and Ron and Fred and George (George and Fred?) and all the people he wasn't sure he was friends with or not.

Either way, the anger was over, and after some explaining, he had to concede that yes, the others _did_ have a point.

Time to actually meet the Order.

By listening in, of course.

In the living room of the House of Black, the legendary Order of the Phoenix was scrambling.

"How can we be sure that this man is on our side? Freelance or not, reporters can be paid off!" Molly was dashing around in worry - poor Harry had been dragged by the media constantly because of that awful Fudge's smear campaign, why should they let a reporter - an enemy - near him, to protect him?!

Lupin spoke up, flipping through the rather small information packet Dumbledore had given them about this _Miles Upshur_. "It says here that he's notorious among muggles for digging up dirt, and has never been paid off by one of the companies he's investigated."

Moody shot back a retort, always skeptical, always finding holes. "Who would know if he's been paid off? He certainly wouldn't tell!"

Lupin just sighed. "I don't think Dumbledore would bring along a journalist to investigate the Ministry unless he was absolutely sure he could trust him."

A greasy little voice floated out of a corner. "There is also the matter that this reporter is a _muggle_. He cannot fit into our society to _investigate_ , and besides that, nobody will ever listen to him, not to mention that a mere muggle cannot enter Hogwarts. What use could Dumbledore possibly have for him?"

"Well, _Snivellus_ , why don't you ask him yourself?" The stick-skinny, rather raggedy fugitive pointed at the door, in which stood a man in purple robes covered in moons and a tall, rather thin man wearing a long, black cloak. Something about him was _different_ , unnatural, something that spoke of pain and fear and something almost _holy_ , but in a way far, far different than Heaven.

But that feeling was soon shaken off by the Order, and being unable to see the newcomer, the teenagers outside the door continued to listen.

Milky white eyes - they reminded Moody of Death, Sirius of the Dementors, Snape of the white liquid of the Pensieve - flickered around the room, sizing each wizard up, assessing.

The wizards shivered as the eyes found them lacking.

Then, suddenly, the air cleared, and the feeling of an itch that simply could never be scratched faded.

Miles Upshur grinned.

"Do I smell food?"

Harry frowned, handing the Extendable Ear to one of the twins (he could never tell which). So, they hired a muggle journalist to not only investigate the Ministry, but also to _protect him_? What sort of sense did that make? He didn't need any fucking protection, and more than that, what could a _muggle_ do against Voldemort?!

So, he stormed off, and returned to sulking in his room, Ron and Hermione following.

It wasn't long before he exploded.

"Why are they hiring a bodyguard? Haven't I proven myself already?! Haven't I done enough to show that I'm not some child?!"

"Harry, calm down!" Hermione, always the rational one, laid a hand on the other's shoulder. "He's also a reporter, isn't he? Maybe Dumbledore just needed an excuse to get him in! He always has plans behind his plans, and they always turn out alright in the end."

"They almost didn't." The black-haired boy turned his head and crossed his arms, pouting. This was useless and unfair! What could a _muggle_ do that he couldn't?! Voldemort wouldn't care about this Miles Upshur being a reporter, he'd just Avada Kedavra him into hell! He could handle himself! He'd proved it, again and again! _He didn't need a babysitter!_

"A-and Hermione, don't forget about how the Daily Prophet's been draggin' him! What if the Ministry buys him out too?" Ron's eyes were wide, his bright red hair frazzled.

This comment sparked yet more rage in the Chosen One. "Exactly! Dumbledore isn't just doing something useless, he's putting us in danger!"

The brown-haired witch sighed, leaning back. "I'm sure Dumbledore wouldn't hire a reporter that could be bought out. Let's just give him a chance, okay? He might not be as bad as you guys think he is."

Both Harry and Ron reluctantly conceded, Hermione soon enough heading back to her own room, the boys changing into their pajamas and heading off to bed, letting the Sandman whisk them away to the land of dreams.

Below them, the Apostle of Sand and the god he held grinned, the wizards recoiling at the almost _feral_ expression.

This would be _interesting._


End file.
